


Yours

by anythingbutgrief



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Gap Filler, M/M, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutgrief/pseuds/anythingbutgrief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dancing, telling fucking jokes..." Happiness set between 4x11 and 4x12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours

"Hey, Mickey." Ian’s voice caused him to jump, probably high enough that it was visible from where Ian was standing in the doorway. Mickey quickly shoved his notepad behind him, under the covers, but Ian didn’t comment on it, instead coming closer, shutting the door behind him. "Hey. I wanna tell you a joke." 

Mickey rolled his eyes affectionately. “You need my permission for that?”

Ian sat down on the bed next to him, turning and crossing his legs underneath his body to face Mickey’s profile, face serious and calm. Mickey tried to subtly shift to shove the pile of blankets hiding his notebook further down the bed, but that wasn’t what Ian was focusing on anyway. ”What did the delivery guy say to the moose?” 

Mickey sighed, long-suffering. “I don’t know. What’d he say?”

"Can you sign for this?"

There was a long pause, Mickey waiting for the joke to be finished, before Ian started cackling beside him, laughing so hard that by the time Mickey turned to face him Ian’s eyes were watering as he slapped his open hand against Mickey’s knee. “What the hell is so funny about that?”

"Because, because, because—" Ian burst out laughing again, this time burying his head against Mickey’s thigh. Mickey waited for the laughter to pass naturally this time and watched as Ian pulled himself up to wipe at his eyes. "Whew. Because the—huhnh-ha—the delivery guy doesn’t think it’s weird that it’s a moose, he just doesn’t know how to fit the fucking—-" Ian grinned again, then pressed his mouth into a straight line before breathing deep, trying to school himself. "The fucking pen into his hoof. Instead of fingers. Because he’s a moose, Mick! How is he going to sign for the package?" 

"That is actually the worst fucking joke you have ever told," Mickey said as Ian devolved back into a giggling mess on his lap, and this time he brought his hands down to play through Ian’s hair while he was distracted with laughing like a dumbass. "I’m serious. That deserves a medal or some shit, it’s so bad." 

Ian kept laughing against his legs, so Mickey kept petting him, movements going slower and thoughtful when Ian started to quiet down. “What package did the moose need delivered, anyway?” 

Ian looked up, bracing his chin on Mickey’s leg. “Ummmmmm………a book.” 

"Hm." Mickey thought about it a moment, running his hand around Ian’s ear. "How could he turn the pages, though? Without fingers?" 

Ian launched himself out of his lap and onto Mickey’s chest at that, laughing instead in the crook of Mickey’s neck so hard he sounded like he was sobbing, and Mickey wrapped his hands around Ian’s waist and tugged him closer, smiling so hard his face started to hurt. “It’s just—it’s just—” Ian sputtered under his ear before choke-laughing. “It’s just—fucking moose—how can he even  _read_? Let alone turn—fucking—-fingers. Goddammit, Mickey.” 

Mickey pulled back far enough to look at Ian’s red face. “I win the joke, huh?” 

Ian shook his head firmly, but Mickey prodded. “Come on. I made you laugh harder.”

"Uh, yeah, that’s ‘cause you’re made of stone and I’m a—"

"Total fucking nerd?" Mickey supplied. Ian scowled, so Mickey leaned up to cradle Ian’s head in his hands, dropping a short kiss onto his mouth. "It’s all right, it works for you," he murmured before kissing him deeper.

Ian pulled back a minute later. “Mm, okay, okay, okay. I have another one. Another joke.” 

"All right, lay it on me, Gallagher." Mickey grinned and poked at Ian’s cheek. "Are you gonna get a watermelon and a hammer next?" 

"Huh?" 

"You know.  _Gallagher_. That fucking old guy, comedian. Smashes fruit onstage. Huge-ass hammer. No? Not ringing any bells?” Ian shrugged, so Mickey faked an exasperated sigh. ”Surprised fucking Frank hasn’t tried to claim him as a brother. How do I know more about your fucking mick culture than you do?” 

Ian smiled and launched himself forward again, this time to kiss Mickey’s jaw. “‘Cause I care more about knowing  _this_  fucking Mick……culture,” he trailed off, laughing again.

Mickey lightly slapped Ian on the butt. “Come on, come on, your fucking joke.”

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." Ian pulled back, maintaining unblinking eye contact with Mickey before he spoke, tone serious. "What did the guy’s baby say when he woke up?"

"Is the answer ‘nothing’ because babies can’t fucking talk?" Ian shook his head, his lips tilting up just the tiniest bit, just enough to tempt Mickey into kissing him, but he held back, instead saying, "What’d he say then?"

Ian bit his lip and looked down then, facing Mickey’s lap instead. “He said, ‘morning, Ian.’” Mickey just watched him for a second, confused. “And then, a minute later, ‘get off me, I have to piss.’”

Mickey was suddenly reminded of that morning, when he’d opened his eyes to find Ian watching him, after which they made out for a little while until the pressure on Mickey’s bladder became unbearable. “Me? I’m the guy’s bab—” Mickey cut himself off at the sight of Ian blushing like a damn tomato now, avoiding his eyes, clearly thinking that he’d pushed too far. 

Mickey reached down to grab Ian’s chin, pointing his face up to meet Mickey’s eyes again. “You are such a little shit,” Mickey said before bringing their lips together. “You are  _not_  funny at all,” he breathed against Ian’s chin when they broke apart, but he was laughing now, the sound swallowed into Ian’s mouth, and eventually it got too hard to breathe so he had to pull back and fall against the mattress, trying to catch his breath as the laughter kept bubbling up from his chest. 

Ian was staring down at him, that stupid warmth in his eyes, his hand coming around to pet at Mickey’s chin. “Do I win the joke?”

Mickey shook his head, still laughing. “Tied. Fucking tied, come on.” 

"Well, all right, then," Ian said, like it was a hard bargain, but he kissed Mickey’s lips and cheek and ran a hand up and down his chest a few times before pulling back, tugging on Mickey’s wrist. "Come on. Get up. I feel like dancing."

Mickey groaned and feebly kicked his legs against the bed. “Nah, no, later for that, come on.”

"No, come on, dance with me, Mick!" Mickey shook his head stubbornly. "All right, then. Guess I’ll just have to dance by myself." 

He pulled away from the bed entirely, going over to his phone on the other side of the room to start one of his playlists, this time one of the calmer, more R&B-themed ones that allowed him to move his body slowly. Mickey leaned up at the waist, sitting up to watch Ian move.

Ian really, really, really could not dance. He had no rhythm at all, and now he wasn’t even trying to be sexy, not like at the club, but…Mickey liked it that way, liked Ian bopping and rolling his hips and shoulders with his eyes closed, not attempting a performance at all.

Ian must have realized he had a spectator, though, because he opened his eyes—and, god, how nice he looked with that slight flush on his cheeks—and smiled at Mickey. 

"C’mere," Mickey said, gesturing to space on the bed next to him. 

Ian grinned wider but shook his head and used his own hand to wave at Mickey in a “come-hither” motion, hips still moving to the music. 

"Ian," Mickey said, and he knew he was using  _that_  voice, that soft bed voice that made Ian melt, which was probably a dirty trick but it got his attention, anyway. Mickey extended his arm forward, palm open and inviting. “C’mere.” 

Ian walked back over to him, fingers wrapping around his hand, and for a second Mickey thought he was victorious, but a second later Ian tugged firmly on his arm, yanking him to his feet, clutching at Mickey’s back so he wouldn’t lose his balance and stumble.

"The fuck?" Mickey protested from where he was crushed against Ian’s chest.

"Come on, dance with me. Just one song, I promise," Ian whispered into his hair, dragging them a few feet away from the bed.

Mickey grumbled but wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist, let him guide them into a gentle rocking motion back and forth.

Well. It wasn’t so bad, he guessed, being all pressed up against Ian’s skin, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt, hearing him hum along to the song into his hair.

"I like it like this," Ian mumbled when the song was coming to an end. "When it’s just us. Wish it could be like this at the club." Mickey felt himself tense at the mention of that place, still fucking hated thinking about it, but he relaxed when Ian rubbed a hand along his back and shoulders and kept talking. "Wanna dance with you in front of everybody, you know?"

Mickey swallowed and leaned his head against Ian’s neck, lips falling on his collarbone. “Yeah,” he whispered, barely audibly.

"You don’t have to, though. I know that kind of stuff isn’t easy for you, in front of people," he continued, and he was so calm about it, so certain, that it made Mickey want to snap at him that he didn’t know shit, that he would publicly dance the fucking shit out of Ian, so fucking suck it, but Ian’s hands felt so nice in his hair, taking all the fight out of him. "I’d bet it feel just like this, though," Ian said. "It’d be you and me, still, no matter what. Just like when we kissed." And Ian pulled his head back up at that, bringing their lips together, kissing him so deeply that Mickey lost track of time, lost track of the sound of the music, lost track of the position of his own body until he fell back onto the mattress, Ian on top of him.

"Hey, Mickey," Ian murmured against his ear when they were pressed together on the bed. "You know, you’re really not a dancer." 

"Fuck off," came Mickey’s easy reply, still kissing the side of Ian’s neck. 

"You’re really not, but it doesn’t matter, ‘cause you know what you are?" 

And Mickey swallowed and pulled back then, because the answer his brain supplied came way too quickly, way too easily, it was scary, so he pressed his head into the pillows, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting before his damn mouth became impatient. “Am I—?” he broke himself off.

Ian’s eyebrows scrunched together in question. “Are you  _what_?”

Mickey swallowed and shook his head, looking away from Ian. “Nothing, nothing.” It was stupid to even think it. “Finish your joke.”

"It’s not a joke, Mick," Ian began uncertainly, bracing his hands behind him on the mattress, and for a second Mickey thought he was going to push himself off the bed and storm off in a huff, but he kept going. "I was gonna say, you aren’t a dancer, but you  _are_  an artist.” Then his hands came forward again, clutching the notebook from before, open to a sketch of Ian’s face, and Mickey felt his heart shoot into his neck, pounding so hard in his throat he felt like he was going to vomit.

Ian seemed to notice, so he closed the notebook and pushed it aside again, crawling back over to cage Mickey in with his body. “You are. You really are.” 

Mickey shook his head, trying to will his heart to calm down. Like that ever worked. “Nah, it’s just. Stupid.”

"It’s really not stupid, at all. You’re so good, and you know, you did that all yourself. Nobody taught you. Imagine if you got some training. You’d be so great. Better than all those artist guys at that party I took you to." 

Mickey smiled then, a little, and shyly met Ian’s wide, serious eyes. Ian was so sweet, saying shit he had no business to. “I couldn’t…” 

"You could, though. I know you could do this."

Mickey chewed on his lip for a minute, but Ian was patient, watching him and stroking a hand over his shoulder. “You…think so? You think I could?”

"I think you could do  _anything_.” It was the way he said it, staring at Mickey with that perfect focus, that perfect unbroken  _belief_. Like nothing was impossible when it came to the two of them. It made Mickey feel like he was falling, all solid reliable ground that he’d ever known just ripped away from him in an instant; it made him feel like he was falling on his back through layer after layer of the unknown, but with Ian’ s voice below him, so strong and clear that Mickey could practically picture his arms outstretched: “I’m gonna catch you. I promise.” 

So Mickey looked up at Ian through his lashes and leaned up to kiss that sweet smile. When they pulled apart, Ian stayed above him, brushing the hair on Mickey’s forehead back. “What were you gonna say before? You had an answer for what you were. What were you gonna say?”

Mickey was nervous again, but this time it wasn’t the same body-shaking, world-ending nervousness, not after Ian had said what he’d said, not now when he felt like the limits of the world had been cracked open for him like the freshest egg. “You asked if I knew what I was, and I thought…I was gonna say…” Mickey screwed his eyes shut and leaned up to press his face into Ian’s neck. “ _Yours_.”  

He heard Ian’s soft gasp against his ear, felt his hand cradle his head and tug him closer, his other hand reaching down to pull clumsily at the button on Mickey’s pants. His voice, when he stopped kissing Mickey’s head, was wet but warm, happy. “That, too, Mick. You’re that, too.” 

 


End file.
